


Off Color

by Carmarthen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cold War, Crossdressing, Denial, Drag Queens, First Kiss, M/M, Makeup, Mission Fic, Repression, Undercover As Gay, Undercover as a Couple, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5067958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and Napoleon go undercover in a drag bar. Illya...tries to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



> Cheers to sath and PlinyTheYounger for extensive story help (I hesitate to call it plot) and making this a whole lot longer.
> 
> Happy Halloween, within_a_dream!

Napoleon Solo in an evening gown didn't look anything like a woman.

He also didn't look uncomfortable, didn't wobble on the heels of his satin pumps, didn't look at the eyeliner pencil and lipstick with masculine bemusement.

The gown was green, with the iridescent shimmer of a beetle's wing, something synthetic but good quality. The bodice was wrapped, diagonal lines creating the illusion of a narrower waist. The dropped neckline bared an expanse of throat and collarbone but half-concealed broad shoulders. He'd carry a wrap with it, of course. 

There were probably words for how he looked, in some language, but Illya's mind had gone blank. Whatever those words might be, they weren't words for a KGB agent to say to an American spy, and especially not this KGB agent to this American spy.

Napoleon was watching him with a little smile fixed on his lips, one brow quirked a little in patient amusement. He must love this, Illya thought with a reassuring flash of irritation, shocking the Russian rube with his ease, as if men in dresses were any more commonplace in the decadent West. He ought to make a sharp remark, the kind of remark Napoleon himself would make. A crack at his masculinity, just barbed enough to sting without offending—if it was even possible to offend someone whose armor was so glossy, so smooth.

"Not that eyeshadow," he snapped instead, catching Napoleon's wrist—the bones of it sturdy, male, no matter how many pearls he'd wrapped around it. "Wrong color for dress." He made himself let go, not thinking about the way Napoleon's pulse had quickened for a few beats, took the eyeshadow and set it back on the table. "This one is better."

He expected a reply, an argument, but instead Napoleon made a thoughtful little sound in his throat, closed his eyes, and tilted his face back. His neck was exposed, no less masculine than his wrist. Bare. Vulnerable. Like he'd forgotten who—what—Illya was. "Be my guest, Peril."

Illya clenched his hands into fists, swore inwardly, then held his right hand out palm down, fingers spread, testing. Rock steady, so he didn't even have that excuse. His hands only shook when he was angry, not when—

"We don't have all night," Napoleon said, dry and faintly amused. Illya couldn't decide if it made it better or worse than there wasn't a trace of innuendo in his tone. No, he'd left that for Illya to fill in, damn him.

One of his classmates had showed him how to do this once, a long time ago. In retrospect, she'd probably been testing him. Everything had been a test then.

Maybe that was why sweeping the pale green eyeshadow over Napoleon's lids, lining the crease heavily with a darker brown, felt as uncomfortably intimate as checking Gaby's tracker. The problem was that he had no idea what Napoleon was testing.

"Does it meet with your approval?" Napoleon asked when he had finished, with a slow blink.

He needed eyeliner and mascara for full effect—no, more than that, because this was Napoleon, and they weren't going to the kind of event that prized subtlety. False eyelashes, dark and lush. The color of the eyeshadow worked, though, a shade midway between the shiny metallic luster of the gown and the clear light blue of his eyes.

"It is acceptable." His words came out grudging, thickly accented. One win, one loss.

"I'm so glad you approve." Napoleon's face gave away nothing.

Illya did not approve of any of this, least of all of how easily Napoleon seemed to slip into this role, but it wasn't his job to comment. He didn't watch Napoleon finish applying his makeup. Instead he occupied himself with checking and loading his pistol, the familiar motions comforting but never mechanical.

In the taxi—driven by a young U.N.C.L.E. agent who couldn't stop sneaking looks at them in the rearview mirror—Illya stared unseeing out the window, rehearsing his cover.

_This is my woman, Josephine. This is my woman—_

With Gaby it had been a clear lie, until it wasn't clear at all.

With Napoleon, it felt dangerous.

Josephine and her escort Misha existed only for a few hours, only within the walls of a very particular club. Here in the taxi he shouldn't be tempted to try it out, to reach over and brush the back of Napoleon's hand with his fingers. He was a professional, and he didn't need to practice.

His hands were white-knuckled, clenched against his thighs, and he willed himself to relax. Pre-mission jitters were normal. They meant nothing.

There was a faint clicking sound and a quiet "Damn" from Napoleon's—Josephine's—side of the taxi. Illya resisted the urge to glance over at him.

"Could you give me a hand with this choker, darling?"

Napoleon's eyes were wide and dark, false lashes excessively long where they swept down against his cheeks. The shadow and light of the street outside filtered through the rain-covered window, playing over his face as they drove, first heightening the illusion of femininity, then destroying it.

Illya held out a hand for the jewellery, not trusting his voice, and Napoleon bent his head, the nape of his neck bare and pale under the upswept hair of his wig. The catch was poorly designed, and his fingers felt clumsy, stiff. At last he fumbled it into place and let it settle against Napoleon’s skin, just as the driver brought the cab to a rough stop.

Out of the close, dark space of the taxi, in the cool night air, Illya took a deep breath, feeling steadier. It had stopped raining, and the air smelled fresh, all the exhaust and stink of the city washed away. This would be a simple mission, quick, just a little fact-finding. Over in a few hours, and then Napoleon would be back in his suits and Illya would insult him and this would become a faded memory with no power to discomfit.

After a moment he remembered that he ought to hold the door for Napoleon.

"Ma'am," Illya said, offering his hand.

"What am I, your grandmother?" Napoleon's grip was firm, and he took full advantage of the proffered help to lever himself out of the taxi. Illya had to brace himself a little against his weight.

"My grandmother would not have worn such a dress." Illya allowed himself a small smile, a sidelong glance at Napoleon—Josephine. Slipping into character, that was all. "For her, far too conservative."

Napoleon stumbled slightly, almost the admission of a laugh, and Illya steadied him with a hand on his arm. Not so different from escorting a woman, but different. It was impossible to forget that in heels Napoleon stood only a few centimeters shorter than him.

"Misha," said Napoleon, stopping in the shadows just outside the narrow pool of yellow light cast by the lamp over the door. "Darling. Give me a kiss for luck."

There was a curious roaring in Illya's ears. He should have been prepared. Of course they might have to kiss, later. Napoleon was very practical, to think of getting the first awkward try out of the way, but Illya couldn't move, his hand frozen against the small of Napoleon's back, just brushing against warm bare skin beneath his wrap.

Napoleon proffered one smooth, lightly powdered cheek, gaze lowered. His mouth was painted into a scarlet pout, dark and old-fashioned, dramatic and a little bit cruel, like a starlet in one of the American films Illya had seen as a child. Misha would kiss Josephine on the mouth; they were lovers.

Illya acted before he could let cowardice freeze him. It was only a kiss. It wasn't even them, so it wasn't real. It wasn't Illya Kuryakin slipping his hand around to cup the back of Napoleon Solo's neck, mindful of the wig. Under his fingers the pearl choker held the cool smoothness of glass to the touch, not the skin-warmth of real pearls. He thought about that, not about Napoleon's mouth.

He didn't have to bend down, just leaned in until Napoleon's lips met his, slightly parted and softer than he would have expected. It was—not terrible.

"A good start," Napoleon murmured, "but we want people to think you're my lover, not my brother." His hands came up, stroking softly over Illya's tense jaw to hook behind his neck and pull him closer. This time Napoleon tilted his head differently, their mouths fitting together without any awkwardness at all. It felt natural to part his lips, to let their tongues meet. It would be easy to turn the tables, to catch Napoleon's wrists and press him back against the damp brick wall, kiss him like another competition. There was something appealing in the idea.

But was good also, this slow sweet thing, the waxy taste of lipstick and the soft slick slide of lips and tongue, the way Napoleon's breath grew harsher when Illya caught at his lower lip with careful teeth.

"Huh," said Napoleon when Illya stopped to catch his breath. "Different than I expected. Convincing, though. Didn't think you had it in you." He licked his lips, then grimaced. "Kiss-proof, my ass."

He took a compact and lipstick out of his handbag and turned away for a moment, angling so he could catch the light.

Illya concentrated very hard on looking like a besotted man waiting patiently for his lover to touch up her lipstick, while his thoughts ran in circles like a trapped fox.

 _Better than I expected,_ would have been one thing. An obligatory insult, flung back and forth between them without thought or meaning. _Different_ meant that Napoleon had thought about how Illya would kiss. Imagined it, maybe. _Why?_

"Ready?"

There was still a smudge of lipstick at the corner of Napoleon's mouth. “Your lipstick,” Illya mumbled, gesturing towards the general vicinity of Napoleon's face without meeting his eyes. "It's still—" To his horror, he could feel heat prickling up the back of his neck, under his collar. He was glad it was dark.

Napoleon shrugged, the wrap slipping down his arm to reveal one pale, muscular shoulder. "Verisimilitude, darling," he said, whatever that meant. "Shall we?" He held out his hand; the lacquered nails only emphasized its masculinity. "Unless you'd prefer to stay out here and keep me warm...."

And there it was at last, the exaggerated, meaningless flirtation Illya had been waiting for, firm ground again. Something in his chest loosened a little, and he took Napoleon's hand without hesitation. "Not tonight, Josephine," he said, surprising a huff of a laugh from Napoleon this time.

"Relax," Napoleon whispered as they crossed the threshold, "you might still get to punch someone."

**Author's Note:**

> In researching this fic (I don't just naturally know things about 1960s makeup!), I think my favorite thing that I found was [this collection of 1950s and 60s drag photos](http://www.queerty.com/photos-drag-queens-1950s-1960s-20140518).
> 
> I had never heard the "Not tonight, Josephine" meme before, but Pliny assured me that it has been around for [literally a hundred years](http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/260600.html), so I hope it's not too obscure to wreck the story if you haven't heard it before.


End file.
